Constellation of Tears
by PaintedinAllColors
Summary: Kanaya is dead, and the thing in the mirror that could be you is growing stronger.


My contribution to the RoseMary ship of Homestuck. I wanted to do happy, but clearly, I cannot do happy. Enjoy.

* * *

_"A constellation of tears on your lashes_

_Burn everything you loved then burn the ashes"_

_~My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Fall Out Boy)_

!~!~!~!

You remember what she was like during almost every moment, waking or slumbering, and even in the fuzzy limbo between the two; you remember her in painfully vivid shards of memory, look at your shared past through a shattered mirror, gripping the pieces that dig into your skin and make you bleed-for staying and bleeding is far better than leaving and facing reality. And if it is the only way you can see her again, you know it is worth more than the pain, that the blood that drips through your fingertips (metaphorically speaking, of course, although you are not so sure about that anymore) is a small price to pay. You know that you would pay far more, and the thing in the mirror does, too, looking at you with baleful eyes the same hue of yours, but with a subtle, sinister shade added, like a knife gleaming in the shadows. The whispers grow louder whenever you look at your reflection; soon all things capable of transferring the image already seared into your memory are gone from your room, and you no longer venture forth for fear of catching another glimpse of yourself-of the thing you could become.

**_I can give you what you want, Rose Lalonde, Seer of Light. Your light is gone, put out by the shallow hand of Fate, but I can restore it. _**

You block the voices, slithering and sinuous and oh so full of temptation, and focus on the memories, continuing to stare out the shattered mirror of your mind. You watch yourself stargazing with her, your breath fogging up the shards that form your line of vision, tears distorting it further and forming new constellations in the nether-light of your mind.

You can hear her voice, right now, if you listen close enough; it replaces that of the horrorterrors-something you were once grateful for, but now, now it plagues your mind, a sweet torment even worse than the monsters. Her laugh dances in your ears, borne on starlit shoes, lightly weaving in and out of the bubble you've created for yourself. The color has leeched out of the world, you realized on the day of the funeral Dave had insisted on having, citing your need to let go as a reason. All you could do was nod numbly and stare at her body, the ghost of a smile curving lips that used to kiss yours, lips that knew every inch of your body intimately. She floated away, falling ad infinitum, her best dress looking like rippled moonlight cloaking her pale skin, the familiar glow forever dimmed. You nodded and smiled and accepted condolences; Eridan leaking violet tears and clutching his scarf as if it were his lifeline, no doubt regretting everything and missing her desperately; Karkat hugging you tightly with a quick pap and an apology mumbled through tears tinted carmine; John and Jade clinging to you tightly, promising to be there if you ever needed them, their eyes swollen and red; Dave looking on stoically, eyes veiled by shades, but he turned to you with an inscrutable look that was his own way of silent solace; Gamzee managing a sad honk before turning away and loping off, saying her existence was most motherfucking miraculous-the only damned sentiment you agreed with that day.

**_Come now, Rose Lalonde. You have gone blind, would you not like to see again?_**

"Rose," she whispers in your ear if you imbibe enough, to the point where the wine blurs your vision and slurs your tongue, gifting you a deliciously sweet void.

"Kanaya," you mumble in return, confused eyes forming a wraithlike vision of her. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

You do love her, present tense, and all the pain that comes with loving someone who is incapable of loving you back-and not because they are otherwise inclined, or unattracted to you, but because they are dead. You have heard of the dream bubbles, read voraciously on them until the words blurred into one big smear and you realized that you were crying again, dammit, why won't the tears stop? And you know you can find her, know you will find her, and you say as much to Dave as he holds you, papping the blubbering mess you've become occasionally, still unreadable behind his shades.

You hang on to the apparitions every word, even though the rational part of you knows that it isn't really her, cannot possibly be her, the other part of you doesn't really care, because it's as close as you're going to get right now, and your rational half has been slowed and dulled by the constant barrage of liquor you know you swore never to touch but can't bring yourself to care that you're consuming copious amounts of it.

When Dave, then Karkat, then Jade, then John, then everybody, start questioning you about it, concern glazing over their eyes, you realize that they don't truly miss her, not like you do. And you scream at them to go away, yell that you're fine, because if you say it enough you're sure to believe it soon, right? You shout yourself hoarse, breaking down into dry, heaving, pathetic sobs; made irrational by the drink and grief that have eroded your control, your mind. They leave, one by one, the desolation of despair and disappointment scrawled clearly across their faces, and you just pour yourself another drink in the ruins of your room.

"And I you," she always says in return, just before you black out, and the words brought on by an alcohol-induced delusion carry you peacefully into the land of slumber, where if you're lucky you'll see her again, once upon a dream, and have your happily ever after just like you wanted-no, needed, with her, despite the cliche. You know you can't give up seeing her, even if it isn't real. You can't give up the only thing that lets you see her. You want to see her again, real and alive and breathing. You want to lean up and kiss her; you want her to lightly drag her fangs against your neck in the spot that makes you shiver and gasp; you want her to read to you; you want you want you want.

**_I can give you what you_ want.**

As usual, the voices, all of them blended into one horrific cacophony laced with temptation and promises, come to you in the moments between sleep and waking, where you float in the darkness, confused and unaware, trembling all over as earthquakes of loss and despair ravage whatever is left of your soul. They jolt you awake, and you catch the distorted reflection of yourself on the bloodstained shards of the mirror that used to occupy almost an entire wall of your room. You blink, shudder at the rising nausea that has nothing to do with the alcohol, not this time, at least, and flinch when it hasn't changed, when the inverted copy of you smiles an insane, macabre imitation of a smile, and starts speaking the words you've been ignoring since she died-

(Blood, so much blood, her beautiful jade vitality staining the hallway as you stare wide eyed at the lone weapon that pins her to the wall, the life draining out of her)

_**Your lover is dead, Seer of Light. I can restore her. **_

And the thing in the mirror continues smiling, sly triumph glinting in its abyssal eyes. It knows it has you, and it knows that you can't ignore it this time.

"Can you?" your voice is hoarse, harsh, gritty and unused. You haven't spoken except for screams in hours that are either waking or sleeping; time has ceased to have a meaning to you, as have almost all other things, you realize with a slight shock. You don't remember the last time you ate.

_**We both know that I can do that, and more. If and only if you give yourself in return to me. **_

You know Kanaya wouldn't want you to. You know Dave, John, Jade, Karkat, everyone else, you know they wouldn't want you to. You know they'd turn their back on the mirror, or find someone to talk to. But you can do neither of those things; you've isolated yourself from everyone who ever cared, and now you're caught in the beautiful, brilliant web of what-ifs and maybes that you now know can bring into reality.

You shouldn't be considering this, you really shouldn't. But once more, you can't bring yourself to care.

"I will," you speak the definitive words in your cracked and broken voice.

The smile of the thing in the mirror grows even wider, a predatory smile, and all the promises are gone, the beautiful flower has revealed itself to be naught but a hideous Venus Flytrap.

Your last thought is one of apology.


End file.
